Wait, Brother Mine
by BMRH
Summary: "He starts over and hits again. Hitting harder and harder at the object of his work. You; the person who is their prisoner. You, who happens to be my little brother." An angsty drabble about the Holmes brothers from Mycroft's point of view. Set during the torture scene in "The Empty Hearse".


**AUTHOR'S FIRST NOTE**

I'm back with a very short but very angsty work, quite in a different style from what I have been writing before in some sense. Except for Sherlock and John, I think the best character dynamic in the show is between Sherlock and Mycroft. This is me reflecting a bit on that and how Mycroft might have actually thought and felt when seeing his little brother get tortured in Serbia. I'm pumping up the angst and violence a little bit in this so be aware of that. Enjoy!

* * *

 _ **WAIT, BROTHER MINE**_

The fabric of the uniform is 27 years old. It smells of Turkish cigars, of sweat and of alcohol, as well as another estimated 24 odours that I don't bother to name. The large confident Serbian man marches past me again. From the nearby table he grabs the 17 year old knuckle-dusters he fabricated himself in his youth. In recent years he has improved its effectiveness for the purpose he is currently using it for. Bringing them forcefully onto the thin limbs, into the pale skin, sometimes piercing it quickly and then retracting again. It is torture and it fills its purpose effectively. He starts over and hits again. Hitting harder and harder at the object of his work.

You; the person who is their prisoner.

 _You,_ who happens to be my _little brother_.

You made a foolish mistake and you obviously underestimated the width of the task you had taken on.

Stupid boy.

Of course you should have realised that they weren't going to leave the weapons behind. Of course they would come back. That is how these terrorists work. They always want more until they can't stop themselves. Think they can have it all. Frankly, quite like you, brother mine.

You groan under your breath when the fists connect with your bare skin another time, fighting against making the pain you feel display on your features. They caught you four days ago. No sleep in three days, dark circles under your eyes proof enough. Not eaten in 58 hours. What if anyone attacked if you slept, poisoned you if you ate? I would certainly have thought it a clever consideration if it wasn't for the fact that you didn't inform me about your intentions before breaking in and infiltrating their organisation. The consulting criminal's final cell. The final frontier.

Did you think you could take them down without any of my assistance?

How far did you intend to go to prove it? This far or further?

Are you proud of yourself now, brother?

I certainly hope you are.

 _Stupid_ boy...

The Serbian changes his tool to the crowbar beside him. You can surely see why they chose him for this task. He is vicious, without empathy and he hits without hesitation. After the second blow, you can't hold up any longer and you let out one of your piercing screams, one that is surely to echo far outside the cellar's walls. Someone that certainly will not hear them is the 21 year old naive sergeant with an autistic sister, standing guard by the stairs and blocking any sound with the headphones in his ear.

Youth and their headphones…

Always enforcing their ignorance by blocking out the sounds of their minds' active work. That precious sound, which millions of humans drown daily with the unbearable noises which they call "music".

I have always appreciated the sound of my mind. I welcome it, embrace it. In time, you did as well, brother. At least we agree on that most of the time, you and I. Blocking away the sound of the mind is ineffective, even if I have had to realise that the stupidity of humans is permanent and irrevocable, even if they would stop that particular practice.

Our opinions about music wary however, or rather our understanding of it, just like you think most of our perceptions of the world do. I see music as notes and tones in different variations, noises coming together in what can be described as harmony. To you, music is more. Music has a purpose for you. It is how you express yourself, cope with and drown the sound of those _feelings_ you don't want and can't handle. Instead you compose and you play; frantic classics during your fits of boredom, slower and more delicate serenades during your investigations, and of course the creaking and false noises on the day you left London two years ago, when you had said your last words to Dr Watson. Your state of mind reflects in the pace of your fingers, in the pressure of the bow on the strings.

Emotions, sentiments, _feelings_...

You always were an emotional child.

You still are when you play.

Usually I don't mind. I have always appreciated your playing.

Another blow falls. You have endured three more attacks but this time you scream again, even louder, temporarily frantic until you have to gasp for air.

 _Fascinating_ , isn't it? Your voice has been unusually deep since puberty but your screams have always sounded relatively high-pitched in comparison. These screams are no different. Their franticness resembles the frequent cries of the baby boy with sustaining colic I heard from my room while doing eighth grade level homework. They have traces of the sobs which characterised the whimpers the seven year old boy let out in the nights after "Redbeard's" disappearance. The way they break your voice when they reach their climax however bears more similarity to those of the teenager I found many years ago in a damp alleyway, high on cocaine to the point that you didn't know what was real or what wasn't anymore. Usually you didn't go that far, even in your adolescent years. I believe you only tried to enhance the part of you that you liked, that I had taught you to like and nourish.

The part I knew was most likely to protect you.

Logic.

Reason.

Indifference.

 _"Seeing the world the way you do, Mycroft."_

You, my brother, have always been vocal. Always loud. Always been voicing what you don't know how to handle, just like with your playing. In recent years you have become quieter. You have understood and protected yourself the way I taught you. Logic is always the answer. Caring is not an advantage. It will always cloud your judgement, throw dust in your eyes and make you unable to control the powers you possess. Without it, you can reach your full potential. After all, you are considered brilliant in your own way. I have always known you had the capacity to raise above all the humans too stupid and imbecile to understand that you are, who you are, _what_ you are.

The Serbian man grasps your hair.

"Za poslednji put; ko si ti, govno yedno!?" (For the last time; who are you, you piece of shit?)

You are one of a kind.

Well, you are my brother after all.

Another man, middle aged with high foot arches and a two year old limp is approaching the stairs. Baron Maupertuis. He asks quickly if you have spoken yet and we all know the answer is negative. The torturer continues his work while the baron leaves. He slips on the steps when he walks back up. Do you hear it as well that he do, brother, or has your senses started to betray you?

Do you remember when you fell from the stairs? It must appear unimportant to you so I perceive you have deleted it. You might think you have but I know you are lying. To this day, you always take one step at the time down narrow staircases if you don't wear shoes.

You were five. I was twelve.

You were so small then, so light, and not only because of your young age. Before your growth spurt in your teens, you were always among the shortest of your peers. An easy target for the other children to make fun of but you always had a great comeback. Even during childhood, you demanded the last word.

And you always succeeded.

Except with me.

This time you only cried. No one else was home and I carried you to the kitchen. Your whimpers only intensified when I placed the ice pack against your forming bruises.

The torturer smiles. He hits with the crowbar again.

 _"Mycroft, it hurts."_

"Vrištite za mene..." (Scream for me...)

He hits again.

 _"Please, make it stop. Please!"_

 _"I'm trying, Sherlock. You need some patience."_

And again.

 _"Please, Mycroft. It hurts so much."_

 _"I know. Wait just a little bit longer."_

People scream, people cry.

People hurt and then they die.

That is the history of time, the reality of existence.

Caring is not an advantage.

Has never been and will never be.

Caring didn't save Dr Watson.

Caring certainly won't save you.

Even if you are my little brother.

Even if you scream, even if I hear you suffer.

You would have done the same, I know you would. Why are you trying to convince me of anything different? Trying to make me do something rushed; something incredibly stupid?

Something irrational.

 _Illogical_...

Caring doesn't save us.

Only logic does.

So I stop listening. Put my feet on the stool in front of me.

Patience is essential if logic should do its work properly.

Patience and composure during the wait.

Wait.

 _Wait_ , brother mine.

Wait just a little bit longer.

Then I will make it stop.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S FINAL NOTE**

And there goes the tears. I think Mycroft in general is an extremely interesting character, especially in his feelings towards Sherlock. Being probably even more logical and cold than Sherlock, he still loves his little brother dearly and wants to protect him. That clearly creates conflict in him that I think he's aware of sometimes but sometimes not. I tried to reflect on this here, how he can be very logical and objective but the more he hears his brother suffer, the more it gets to him and he becomes angry, both at Sherlock and himself.

 **What did you think of this little piece?** Bring on the comments and favourite markings! It always motivates me to get better.


End file.
